Blackmailed!
by yourgrandmother
Summary: PostHogwarts. What the hell is Hermione doing working in a seedy bar? Why is Snape in that bar? Blackmail and hilarity ensue. HGSS. AU to a degree.
1. Ch 1: That Fucker Threw Up On My Bar!

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Rated for language and perhaps sexual content in later chapters.

**A/N: This is my first fic since 2004 and I never even finished that one. I'll get back to _Ghetto Gangsta Tricks_ eventually, but I thought I would try something new. I might change the title, but this is the first thing I could come up with. I know it's hard to think of anything after reading one or two chapters, but I would appreciate any suggestions you may have. **

**I appreciate reviews/comments. They do help. **

**-Your Grandmother**

Blackmailed!

Chapter 1—That Fucker Threw Up On My Bar!

* * *

"Who the bloody hell threw up on my bar?" a frustrated voice screeched. She had turned her back for one minute, _one minute_, to stack glasses in a crate that needed to be washed. Next thing she knew, someone hadn't made it to the toilet. Careful to avoid the vomit, she peered over the bar to find some bloke passed out on the floor next to his stool. She'd have to deal with that fucker later. The few customers she had in the bar on the Sunday afternoon were looking at little skeeved out by the puke. 

Satisfied that it was slow enough that it would be unlikely any newcomers would be walking in the door, she walked around the bar and into the back to fetch a bucket, some rags, and—was she daft? She had a wand, didn't she? Just because she wasn't as close to the wizarding world as she used to be, didn't make her any less of a witch. Perhaps this job was starting to make her unconsciously masochistic. Stalking out of the back room, she came back to find one of her dodgier customers drinking from the tap.

"Oi!" she yelled and slapped him upside the head. "Hands off!" It was more the surprise of the blow than the actual slap led the man to lose his balance and fall to the floor. Yanking her wand out of her back pocket, she pointed it at the vomit and grumbled a "_Scourgify_," leaving the counter spotless.

Her frizzy ponytail bouncing behind her, she strode toward the man who had had the nerve to get sick all over her bar in the first place and shook her head. She muttered a hover charm and had the man gallantly disposed of on the sidewalk outside. She did the same to the one who had been pinching pumpkin ale from her tap.

She walked back inside and was thankful to see that no one else had tried to steal from her inventory. The door closed behind her with a tinkle from the bells hanging above it. Well, not _her _inventory, she had to remind herself—she was just the bartender. She sighed and took a look at the sight before her. Drunks, sleazes, and of course, the dodgy types were all her beloved clientele.

After graduating from Hogwarts, what had Hermione Granger thought she would be doing five years down the road?

"Not bloody cleaning up after drunks," she muttered to herself between gritted teeth. She reached for a sponge to scrub down the bar. Hermione, being slightly OCD, still didn't quite deem the surface clean. She'd been doing the same thing for nearly eight months ever since she'd been sacked from her job at the Ministry. No one knew that of course.

What she had told everyone was that in a triumphant fit of rage, she had quit the bureaucratic hypocrisy of Rufus Scrimgeour. She would be a desk rat no more! Then she quickly explained that she had wanted to see the world, do _meaningful_ research and had disappeared quickly to reorganize herself and figure out what the hell had happened to her mind.

She dropped the sponge down into the sink and checked her liquor stock. Realizing she was in need of some red currant rum, she used a stool as a perch to look into the inventory cabinets above the bar for a bottle the stuff. Hermione Granger, former Head Girl, was sticking her head in a cabinet to find liquor.

"And while you're up there, sweetheart, why don't you fetch us a nice bottle of firewhisky?" an oily voice asked. Frank, the manager of the place.

"Yeah, Frank, in a minute. I'm trying to find the red currant rum. I've had a bloody hell of a Sunday already. Would've been nice to have your help," she muttered more to herself than him because unless it was a fight, he stood back and let—no _made_— her take care of things. With the rum in one hand, Hermione continued rummaging around until she could find the Ogden's black label that she knew was hidden around somewhere back there.

"Sorry I couldn't be here. Had business, sweetheart. I'm sure you handled it just fine."

"As usual, Frank, as usual."

"You daft, or what? It's right next to the single malt."

"I told you to wait a minute!" She didn't want to start this now, not when she still had a few hours before closing. Hermione turned her head sharply to glare at him and lost the color in her face.

"Yes, _sweetheart_, a bottle of Ogden's," a voice sneered. Dread crept up the small of Hermione's back and into her shoulders.

"Right next to the single malt," the voice she knew too well echoed her manager's words. With two bottles cradled in her arms, Hermione took small steps on the stool that had seemed to have shrunk to turn to her manager. And Severus Snape.

* * *

"Sweet Cheeks, I haven't got all day. Us gents have some matters to discuss. Pass it on down, I'll take care of the snifters." Frank waved at a frozen Hermione expectantly. When she didn't move, Snape reached up and took the bottle easily from her arms as Frank went behind the bar to fetch the glasses. 

"Professor…?" She looked tired, he noted. Upon seeing the dark circles under her eyes and her slouched posture, he corrected himself— she looked worn out. His eyes glanced briefly at her black jeans and the "Black-Beetle Eyes, est. 1644" written in white block letters on the top right corner of the form-fitting t-shirt she wore.

"Yes, that is my title. Thank you, for reminding me, Ms. Granger," he stated, brushing off some lint from the sleeve of his own dark robes. He was slightly disconcerted at the fact that he and his former student seemed to be matching. She made a small hesitant noise in her throat. She looked ridiculous, standing there looking confused on a stool like that. When he came to the conclusion that she was only going to stare anxiously, he decided that it would be worthwhile to make the comment that he knew would make her squirm the most.

"I'm glad to see that you're enjoying your cultural explorations in Romania so thoroughly. I'll be sure to pass along your greetings to those in the Order." He smiled sardonically before joining Frank in a booth at the far end of the bar.

* * *

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." Hermione sat next to a stack of crates full of dirty glasses with her head between her legs, trying not to hyperventilate.

* * *

**Note: **

**This isn't going to be an angst-ridden fic. I'm trying to have fun with the characters. I know both Hermione and Snape might be slightly OOC, but do let me know if you think it's ridiculously bad. Also, if someone is randomly ridiculously interested in being a beta, contact me because that would be really awesome.**


	2. Ch 2: Wishes of Knut Flicking

Disclaimer: I own nothing, as can be assumed. This is HG/SS, if you couldn't tell. I haven't decided to worry about other pairings yet. Rating for language and sexual situations later. Just a warning, but some people might consider this AU or OOC. As long as you're cool with that, so am I!

**A/N: I promised myself I would upload chapter 2 tonight, so here I am. This is pretty much how I've decided to work things: as long as I have a chapter to spare to edit/look at, I will post. That is, as long as I've written chapter 3, I'll post chapter 2, or as long as I've written chapter 5, I'll post chapter four. You get the idea. The next two chapters are mostly dialogue, but I felt this conversation really needed to be in here to justify a few things. Anyway, unless you've already skimmed this, here's the story:**

Blackmailed!

Chapter 2— Wishes of Knut Flicking

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." Hermione sat next to stacked crates full of dirty glasses with her head between her legs.

She had taken this job for a reason. It was remote enough, skuzzy enough that no one she knew would ever walk in and find her, doing this. She had needed time to collect herself, to sort things out.

"You have a family and friends, isn't that what they're there for? To sort through crap like this with you?" the reasonable side of her thought. However, Self-Loathing Hermione simply wanted to give herself a good, solid punch in the nose.

"They can't know I failed," Angsty Hermione wailed in her mind. "No, no," Cynical Hermione corrected, "They can't know what you _did_ to fail." Memories of her last day at the Ministry swirled through her mind— Scrimgeour, the shocked looks of her co-workers, the lawyers. Goddamn she needed a pensieve to dump some of this emotional baggage into.

"_Gagh_," she emitted a soft guttural moan as she flung her head back to rest it on the wooden cabinets behind her. The worst part about all of this was that Snape knew. Well he didn't _know_, but he knew something was up and had the potential uncover her. Then she would be forced to explain what had happened at the Ministry and why she was working at Black-Beetle Eyes instead of in Romania making career contacts and doing research on vampires. She began banging the back of her head against the cabinets in frustration. Why had he come today? Monday was her day off. If he had come one day later, she wouldn't have been in this mess.

_Why_? Why did he have to be here— she ceased her banging and looked in awe at the floor. Crawling on all fours and peering around the side of the bar, she narrowed her eyes at the former Professor in question. Rather than wondering why she had given back her Time-Turner at the end of her third year, the better question for her brainy self was:

What the hell was Snape doing there in the first place?

He was seated at the back of the room, listening patiently to whatever Frank was going on about. Sure, Frank knew some dodgy types, but…she should have known better than to wonder. Having been a spy for the Order and a pseudo-Death Eater, Snape was always associated with some dodgy type or another.

"Oi! Love, quit crawling around on the floor and get me another ale!" one of her regulars scolded. Hermione jumped and looked up at the man guiltily. She scrambled to her feet and fumbled for a mug, attempting to look nonchalant, rather than embarrassed. As she poured the pumpkin ale into the magically chilled mug, she snuck a quick look at Snape to find him looking at her with a raised brow. Hermione jerked her head away from him in embarrassment and practically ran to the customer to deliver him his drink.

After the one ale had been replenished, the rest of her customers seemed to have perked up from their drunken stupors and realized that they wanted new drinks as well. This was fortunate for Hermione, as it kept her from worrying about any impending doom or a professor she had scarcely seen since Voldemort's defeat. Her mood lifted a little when she managed to actually make a few quid.

* * *

The money in her pocket comforted her when Frank eventually stumbled from the booth to his office to calculate the daily totals, leaving her to deal with Severus Snape on her own. For some reason, fingering the Knuts, Sickles, and the occasional Galleon in her pockets kept her calm enough not run away screaming when Snape inevitably walked up to the bar to speak with her. Perhaps it was because she knew that if worst came to worst, she knew she could flick a Knut in Snape's eye, thus distracting him long enough for her to run out of the bar and hail the Knight Bus. Or maybe she just liked the sound of tips in her pockets. Not likely— the idea of flicking a Knut in Snape's eye was quite an appealing one. 

"Miss Granger…" Snape addressed her with a smirk, thus dissipating her Knut-flicking fantasies.

"Professor Snape, what can I do you for?" she asked, drawing her hands out of her pockets.

"A few sickles should suffice." He shrugged, looking into his half-empty glass of firewhisky. She was busying herself by putting away a crate of freshly-washed glasses.

"What?"

"Do keep up, Granger. You asked what you could do me for and I told you. You can do me for three sickles," he reprimanded her airily. Hermione's eyes widened in shock. Snape looked up at her, his face a mask of pure innocence.

"Don't tell me I'm too old for even the occasional comedic sexual remark." He rolled his eyes at her.

"No, you simply haven't attempted humor since the first time I saw it exhibited at the victory party." Hermione shook her head at him, covering up a smile.

"Alcohol does wonderful things," he replied demurely, slamming the bottle of Ogden's on the bar.

"I see." Hermione smirked. "And you, Snape, are cut off." She reached out for the bottle to put it back behind the bar, but before she could, he quickly grabbed a hold of her wrist.

"Surely, Granger, I thought with your astute observational skills, you would have been able to deduce that false drunkenness is a wonderful decoy," he replied softly. Hermione looked into his eyes and realized his pupils weren't as dilated as she had assumed they would be.

"As former Head Girl, _my apologies_," she retorted, shaking her arm from his grip. "It's been awhile since I've dealt with spies who overanalyze every little matter in the hopes of one-upping one's intellectual superiority."

"From what I can see, Granger, it's been awhile since you've dealt with anything intellectual at all." He smirked, idly tapping his fingers on his glass. He had meant for that comment to sting, and it did.

"From what I can see, Snape, it's been awhile since you've been stimulated period," she tossed back.

"Like I told you before, Miss Granger, that could all be arranged for the sum of a few Sickles." Snape sighed, taking a sip of the firewhisky and rolling his eyes at her.

"You're that cheap, are you?" She grinned, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Oh no, think of it more as a discount because of our history together as student and professor. That and obviously, your current financial circumstances." He eyed her pityingly.

Hermione glared at him in response as she wiped her hands on a rag before putting the crate she had unloaded to the side.

"Oh, poor dear, are you tired of playing games you're not used to playing?" he sneered.

"I play those games just fine, Professor, though I don't understand why you developed the sudden interest in playing them," she replied and shook her head, her jaw clenched. Her initial fear that had dissipated into wary amusement wore off and was replaced with anger.

"I play them because it is not often I get the opportunity to make my students miserable _after _they have graduated." Hermione chose to ignore him. The liquor may have taken the cruel, sharp edge off of him, but he was still one big fucking sadistic bastard. Until he got what to whatever the hell it was he was going to say, she needed to keep moving before she did something dumb. Like flick a Knut in his eye. She wouldn't have done it so she could run away, but so she could laugh at him writhing on the floor and getting his black robes dusty.

"Easy, Hermione." Motherly Hermione attempted to calm her down. However, Homicidal Hermione was waiting to stretch her legs. With little work left to do for such an empty bar, Industrious Hermione and Sane Hermione were desperate enough to start organizing the sugar packets for the rare coffee drinkers to keep Homicidal Hermione at bay.

"Hmm, I wonder how you would play those games if you weren't working in a dingy pub and hiding from most of the wizarding world," he mused sedately before finishing off the last of his firewhisky. Hermione's head shot up from differentiating the Sweet'N Lows from the real sugar to glare at him. Yet before Nit-Picky Hermione and Homicidal Hermione could give him a piece of their minds, he continued. "The key word in the sentence, Miss Granger, was 'most.' I realize that you are still just outside of Diagon Alley, that you see wizarding folk on a standard basis, and that you use your wand regularly, but that does not falsify the fact that you are hiding from a great portion of the wizarding community." He tapped his nose sagely.

"And just to hurry up this little chat, why does that matter to you?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It doesn't. But you must admit, it does put you in quite an interesting position, since _I _am the one who knows about it." He glanced lazily around the room as he waited to reel in her in.

"Alright, what do you want?" she asked, her tone impatient.

"A-ha! That's the ticket. Let's see…what do I want? Well there are a great deal many things I want—"

"I'm not giving you sex," she said flat out. Snape jerked his head back in surprise and rolled his eyes at her. Again.

"So I suppose I should make one thing clear. As you don't seem to be very proficient at playing these games, you might want to know a simple rule. Jokes tend to be involved whilst playing them. For example, references to you paying me three Sickles to sleep with me. It was a witticism on my part," he explained. "You do know what a witticism is, don't you?" He gave her a sideways glance.

"For one so keen on comedy, you sure don't display or accept such behavior within your classroom," Hermione snapped, ready to jump over the bar and throttle him.

"In the classroom? Of course not. Those idiots would never absorb anything!" His voice was stern and disapproving. Now _there_ was the Severus Snape she knew. "Before he died, my wryness was generally reserved for Dumbledore on Friday afternoons after classes when we got drunk on sherry." Okay and he disappeared again. Who the hell was this man? "Yes, right, speaking of classes, I'm blackmailing you into teaching at Hogwarts," he finished and pointed a drunken finger in her face.

"Blackmail? When did blackmail enter the picture?" she asked shrilly. The fear was back. Snape suddenly sat up straight on his stool, very sober and visibly annoyed.

"Granger. What did I tell you? False drunkenness is the perfect…" he waited her to finish the sentence.

"Decoy," she answered, resting her elbow on the bar and her face in her hand. "Why does it feel like I'm being trained for the war again?" Why was he acting this way? Had any of what he had said been true?

"Consider it a job interview of sorts. I needed to make sure you would still be an eligible candidate before I mentioned the idea to McGonagall." He stared at her evenly.

"And when did you get this idea?" She narrowed her eyes at him. Had he been following her?

"This afternoon," he replied nonchalantly.

* * *

**HOLY CRAP I NEED TO STOP LOOKING AT THIS STORY'S STATS. I keep looking at how many hits I've gotten and how many people have added me to their alerts and I swear I need valium or something. I keep telling myself, CALM DOWN, IT'S A FREAKING WEBSITE, but the two reviews I've gotten already have made me a crackhead.**

**So I guess the point of all of that was…thanks? I appreciate it?**

**Reviews/constructive criticism appreciated. Still in the process of looking for beta volounteers!**


	3. Ch 3: Quarterlife Crisis? What?

Disclaimer: Rien ne m'appartient!

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! My stupidly self-conscious ego does a little dance whenever I get one! I try to update when I can, but I pretty much can only spend my weekends on this because college kind of comes first. Sucks, I know. On the other hand, I've seen tons of other fics abandoned after the second chapter, so be happy that there is a third! The fourth is written, but I need to have a beta pow-wow. Anyway, I'm babbling about shit not worth mentioning so…this is the third chapter and the second part of "the ill-fated conversation." Enjoy!**

Blackmailed!

Chapter 3— Quarterlife Crisis? What?

"And when did you get this idea?" She narrowed her eyes at him. Had he been following her?

"This afternoon," he replied nonchalantly.

"You've been following me," she accused and went as far as actually pointing a finger in his face. He pushed it away.

"On the contrary, Granger. I had some business with your manager. He felt more at home discussing certain information within his own pub," he responded easily. Oh this was going to be fun, trapping her as she kicked and screamed.

"What information?" Hermione asked warily, picking up a stack of sugar packets to sort.

"Well, if you had actually been in contact with the disgusting ones you call your friends and family, you would've known. Now, as for your teaching position—"

"They are not disgusting," she cut him off.

"Really?" he asked, looking quite confused. He certainly found them disgusting. He was always dismayed when he received an owl from Molly Weasley inviting him to a family dinner. However, it did force him to exercise his creativity in coming up with a reason for not attending. Since the end of Voldemort, he'd only had to go to a handful of the bloody things due to a couple of bad cases of narcolepsy, brewing some Wolfsbane potion for his new (fake) werewolf girlfriend, and visiting his mother's grave to shed a single emo tear.

"No," she emphasized clearly.

"Oh, I was under the impression that you had finally realized how amazingly obnoxious they were and you were doing your damndest to get them off your back. I was about to congratulate you." Snape seemed slightly put out.

"No!" She was this close to letting Homicidal Hermione take the reins.

"Oh no, you're quite right! You couldn't possibly be hiding from their insufferable hides because that's right, I remember now, you're on an excursion in _Romania_!" His lips twisted into a sour smile. "It's funny, when people say 'Romania,' I generally don't think of a seedy bar outside of London."

Hermione slammed her hand down on the bar, stopping him from saying anything more. "What. Position." Her voice was dangerously low as she leaned in closer to him.

"I beg your pardon?" He briefly wondered if she meant preferred sexual position, but dismissed the thought due to its absolutely arbitrary place in the conversation.

"What position. At Hogwarts," she demanded.

Oh, right, that, he thought. Sexual position, ha. He nearly laughed. If he had mentioned it aloud, she would've walloped him or screamed—perhaps both. He rather liked her being this emotionally unstable. It made her easier to wind up and annoy. Oh dear, he was starting to sound like Malfoy Jr.—that would have to stop immediately.

"The cursed one," he finally answered.

"Defense? I thought that was yours." Her eyes widened and she took a step back from the bar to process the thought.

"Dreams change," he replied carefully.

"Or perhaps you weren't up to the challenge?" she sneered, eager to get a rise out of him at least once within the conversation. She knew she hadn't succeeded when Snape let out an impatient breath and examined her seriously.

"No. What you don't seem to understand, Granger, despite your Gryffindor bravery, is that every once in awhile, an adult must reevaluate their life and themselves. They figure out what is wrong with it all, after which they decide what it is they actually want. And then they go after it. My guess is that this is your first time experiencing such a crisis after such careful planning on your part," he explained coldly.

Hermione regarded him incredulously. He sounded like a sadistic psychologist—an idea that just wasn't right. Merlin forbid a sadistic psychologist actually existed. That would be awful; she wondered if—Hermione pushed Easily-Distracted-By-Shiny-Things Hermione to the side.

"Point taken. I'm still not going to Hogwarts," she said coolly.

"I don't think you have much choice in the matter," he replied as he distractedly examined his cuticles.

"Actually I do. It's simple. I could 'return' from Romania, brokenhearted from some vampire who only wanted me for my blood and not my love. I would be comforted. Get back on my feet." She sighed overdramatically, posing like a tragic heroine on the cover of a romance novel.

"That's not a bad cover story, I'll have to make note of it," he answered dryly.

"I'm glad you think so." She puckered her lips at him. He glared. She dropped the pose.

"That still doesn't change the fact that with that magnificent plan of yours, you will still be in the same stage that you are in now: getting back on your feet. I'm sure if not through me, you'll end up with the Defense job some way or another." He glanced at her carelessly, gauging her reaction.

"Well at least I wouldn't have to be blackmailed into taking the job," she shot back furiously.

"Given these circumstances, I'm sure I can blackmail you into doing _something_." He scratched his temple as if in thought. Hermione was silent for a moment. She felt like she'd just been fired again. Except this time, by Snape, which was worse.

"I'm not going back to Hogwarts," she said finally.

"Why not? Wasn't it your home away from home? Aren't some of your most treasured memories there? Isn't it a place to cherish, love, and give back to?" he drawled, nearly gagging over every sentimental word.

"Yes, it is— if I'm donating money as an alumna, not if I'm going to work there." Her stomach dropped. There was no way he was going to corner her into this, yet that seemed to be exactly what he was doing.

"And why is that?" For once he was actually curious. It wasn't as if Hogwarts was a deathtrap, despite the vast amount of mildly retarded students running amuck.

Hermione paused, choosing her words carefully. "I hate to be egotistical…but you know it, I know it, and everyone we know knows that I was the best damn witch in my class."

"And?" He sounded bored. If she started rattling off her NEWT scores, he was not afraid to club her with the nearest barstool.

"And they expect great things from me. Not the same way they expected great things from Harry. There is no great prophecy in my name, but it's all the same. I cannot drop down to that level. I will not be a _teacher_."

"And what is wrong with being a teacher?" he asked lazily. She was so vehement about it, she made it sound like rape.

"Those who can't do, _teach_," she spat.

"Well you're quite an imbecile if you think that. I think you more than proved your capabilities of defending yourself against the Dark Arts during the war," he rolled his eyes.

"Defense is not my chosen field."

"Then what is your specialization, Granger? Being the first to answer every bloody question ever asked?"

"No." He almost wished she had said yes. At least it would have been a change of pace. The fact that she even had to say "no" made her so Gryffindorish. Always having to prove an exact point that rarely had much value. Only a bloody Gryffindor would answer a rhetorical question.

"Then what is it?" he prompted.

"I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it out," she admitted as a faint blush crept up her cheeks.

"Annnd as expected, I was right. It is your first crisis. A little bit early, but it is your quarterlife crisis." He was surprised at how easy she was to peg. Then again, it helped that he had already been through his own batch of shit before having to diagnose anyone else's.

"I'm 23, not 25." Bloody hell, he was not going to start up again about that crisis bullshit again, was he?

"You're within range," he dismissed. "Treasure it as it was your first menstruation cycle." He clapped his hands together and gave her a falsely romantic smile.

"Piss off!" She snatched his empty glass and the bottle of Ogden's from next to him. She slammed the bottle down next to its other companions behind the bar and thrust the snifter into a crate full of other dirty glasses.

"Oh my, you're not on the rag _now_, are you?" he asked, sarcastically apologetic.

"When did you get to be so overtly loathsome? You used to be content in merely making snide and unkind comments within your own damn dungeons!" she snarled malevolently.

"Oh a few years ago, when I had my most recent crisis." He waved her off.

"You sound like a bloody religious lunatic." The man was off his rocker. He had seemed lucid enough, even after the war, but no, it was a trick of the eye. He was gone, absolutely gone. She had occasionally questioned Dumbledore's sanity, even Sirius', but this man didn't know his fucks from his ducks, blathering on as he did about life crises and finding one's self!

"No, rather than sitting back and commenting on idiocy, I decided that I should take direct action and stop stupidity right in its tracks when I can," he explained rationally. Hermione nearly groaned. He made it sound like as if he were helping homeless children.

"I am not an idiot," she told him, attempting to salvage a sliver of dignity, if any still remained.

"And yet you spend your days serving them…" Okay, the dignity was all gone, fresh out.

"No, I can go back to the Weasleys and Harry. I can crash emotionally with them. With my NEWT scores, I can probably get in on an Arithmancy research team for Gringotts or something." She took a few steadying breaths to concentrate on what her options were.

"Are you certain?" he prodded further. He wanted to see in how much detail she had planned this out, if at all.

"No, but I'm sure Bill can fix something up." She was struggling for answers. Snape smirked inwardly. He almost had her.

"And that would work?" He loved playing this game. Children played it to annoy their parents on shopping trips. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Why do we have to use the Floo Powder? Why do we have to use the Floo Powder? How does a chimney work? What are we doing? What's magic?

"Yes," she replied determinedly.

"I'm not so sure— not with the contacts I have within the Ministry. I'm sure I could acquire the necessary information about your departure from the Ministry from somebody…" Snape glanced over at her innocently. She froze.

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He smirked at her openly. It was his version of a child's serene smile. It looked ugly on him.

"You know I'm capable of better things than a brief stint as a Defense professor," she argued heatedly, but she knew she was losing.

"Ah yes, but the question is, do you _want_ those better things?"

"Of course I do, are you daft?"

"Then why did you leave the Ministry? It's a good, challenging job." Oh, here it was, he had a hold on something. He knew it.

"The pay was crap." She averted her gaze from his.

"That shouldn't matter to a Gryffindor like you," he reasoned pompously.

"I was working for a hypocritical system!" she said desperately. Hermione found herself sounding like a convict.

"Mmhmm, hypocritical in what sense? Oh, this system can help save the British wizarding community and work solidly to recover from an economic depression, but oh dear, the salary's too low. I hoped that a bookworm like you would know what 'hypocritical' meant. I don't believe the definition has changed. You do know how to use a dictionary, don't you?" he asked doubtfully.

That was it. Hermione was smart enough to know when she had been snared. From the moment he had walked in there, Snape had been slowly wheedling her down. She couldn't run. She was cornered. Because of her own fucking pride. And now she essentially had no choice but to trust this callous fool (who was clearly not a fool, but she would never admit that to herself) as he blackmailed her into teaching. Granted, it was at a place that felt like home, but she had standards.

"I was sacked, Snape. Are you happy? I was sacked. Fired. Terminated," she ground out. He could be doing worse. The git could be blackmailing her for any number of things. All he was doing was giving her a job. A job she had hoped the moment she had graduated that she would never have to fall back on.

"_That's_ the bit of information I was looking for. Oh my, it looks like you'll be closing soon. I'm sure I'll figure out why you got the boot soon enough. In the mean time, I will have the correct literature owled to you so that you may review the terms and conditions of the position. In addition to that, I'll enclose a copy of the Hogwarts' curriculum for you to perusal. I'll return on Tuesday to learn of your decision because after all, it is your _choice_. This little catch-up was lovely, Granger," Snape gave her the remaining details as she stood leaning against the bar in a daze.

"I know what hypocritical means despite the public's common misusage of the word!" she blurted.

"I'm sure you do." He nodded disbelievingly at her. And so he left, with the door's bells tinkling merrily in his wake. Hermione crumpled against the bar for support. This couldn't be happening.

Frank emerged from his office soon after Snape's departure. She was numbly aware that she would have to talk to him about finding a replacement. He handed her her paycheck. She watched him return to his office and stuffed the check into her pocket. The money wasn't so comforting anymore.

* * *

"Now see, if you hadn't let your pride get in the way, you wouldn't even be in this situation. You would be doing wonderful things! I don't know what! But wonderful!" Motherly Hermione scolded Prideful Hermione inside her head as she cleaned up the dark, empty bar. 

"Okay, how could I _not_ let my pride get in the way? The name is _Prideful_ Hermione! That's like telling you to function without a superego! No, not even! That's like telling you not to bake cookies when life sucks!" Prideful Hermione snarled in retaliation.

* * *

**Review! As usual, any comments/suggestions are appreciated. Everyone who has reviewed thus far is my collective hero. **

**It's not like me to plug, but I laughed for TEN YEARS when I read Piper of Locksley's "Narcissa is a Skank." Read it if you like reading about the Lily/Marauders/Severus period. I know it's a bitchy thing to do, but hopefully this will prod her into updating. **


	4. Ch 4: Retirement?

**A/N: Holy shit, I suck, don't I? Yeah, I kind of disappeared all random-like, didn't I? Well, I've reappeared, just as randomly. I hope this means I'm working on this story again. Who knows? Chapter 5 is under way, which is good news.**

Chapter 4—Retirement?

"Today turned out better than expected," Severus thought to himself. Walking briskly, he rounded a corner on the street. The afternoon sun was warming his dark robes and his self-satisfied smirk. What a cunning git he was. Her turned another corner before ducking into The Leaky Cauldron to floo back to his office.

Even falling gracelessly out of his fireplace didn't faze him. He brushed off his shoulders as Jay-Z might have instructed him to. Well, that is, if the wizard had ever even heard of Jay-Z. Walking over to his desk, Severus pulled out of his wand and reheated the cold coffee that had been there since that morning. He took a sip before throwing some floo powder into his fire. He shouted, "_Headmistress' Office!_" and leaned on the grate to stick his head amidst the green flames.

"Minerva?" he asked when he didn't see her sitting at her desk. He glanced around further, but he sullenly conceded that she was not there. After having conned Granger, he had actually been feeling social enough to want to speak with McGonagall directly.

"Looking for me?"

Severus jumped, hit his head on the top of the fireplace, and turned around to scowl at McGonagall.

"Actually, yes," he replied with narrowed eyes. He rubbed his head to soothe the sharp ache. He stopped a moment and looked down at the grease that had rubbed off on his fingers. _Yech_, his hair needed a good shampoo. He let his hand fall to his side and wiped the hair grease disgustedly on his robes. He would have to have a date with Head and Shoulders in the shower that evening.

"Ah, I had trouble finding you as well. I wanted to give you your roster," she said, handing him a manila folder. "I checked for you at Spinner's End," she added and eyed him curiously.

"Running errands," he replied smoothly. "I stopped back here to get a copy of the curriculum."

"Curriculum? Whatever for? You haven't needed a copy of that since…"

"I started teaching," he finished for her.

"Who did you find? Who are you nominating?" an excited look passed over the older woman's face. She walked hungrily toward him, cornering him at his desk.

"I have my contacts, Minerva," he said idly, reaching for his coffee mug.

"The only people you know are either Death Eaters or Order members. Death Eaters don't even quite count because you betrayed them and you hate them anyway. As for Order members, you're the snarky recluse who happens to tell extremely inappropriate jokes at parties when under the influence. You don't _have_ any contacts," McGonagall was quick to point out.

_Ah, and interestingly enough,_ Severus thought to himself, _this girl was both a member of the Order and someone he had betrayed._ Although Minerva was quite erroneous in her assumption about his lack of contacts, he felt no need to correct her. Contacts weren't meant to be flaunted, only to be used in confidential circumstances.

"Hermione Granger," he finally answered. It was better to cut to the chase. McGonagall wasn't as fun to play games with, considering she was his boss who had been whinging at him incessantly as of late. She gasped and stared at him with wide eyes.

"What? But how?"

"I charmed her into it," he said smugly.

"Severus, you couldn't charm a goblin into working at Gringotts. What did you really do?" She eyed him warily and took the liberty of sitting in his desk chair.

"It was more of her doing, actually. She sent me an owl several months back, asking about a Blood-Replenishing Potion—"

"Oh dear! She wasn't hurt working with the vampires, was she?" McGonagall looked alarmed. Snape wanted to gag. Oh no, oh dear! Not one of Hogwarts' most prized students!

"Of course not, she just wanted to be prepared, as usual." He waved her away and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced; it always tasted terrible after being reheated. "In any case, her research with the vampires is progressing magnificently." Her rolled his eyes discretely before continuing, "However, she was subtly inquiring if there would be any positions available. You see, she is nearly finished with her field work and she wants Academia supporting her when she publishes her articles." Severus had to restrain a smirk from spreading across his face. Granger's research, ha! What could that be? The study of the effect of time on vomit as it sits on a barroom floor?

"Oh, goodness." McGonagall looked incredibly serious. And incredibly impressed.

"Yes, indeed. She thought it would be wise to start her intellectual career devoted to research with a good name behind her," he reasoned.

"Well of course! It's perfect, Severus. It will at least buy us some time to find a more permanent staff." She clasped her hands together excitedly. "It will be such an honor to have her here. She's already done so much since she graduated."

Severus blinked. It was astounding how a few good, solid layers of absolute bullshit could positively spellbind the right people. He had just made Granger sound like a more intellectually pompous version of Lockheart and already, McGonagall was eating it up. Perhaps Granger hadn't been such an idiot in sounding so confident before disappearing. In fact, it was actually a wonderfully manipulated situation.

"Right. Yes. She's brilliant," he agreed impassively.

"But Severus, why didn't you tell me before?" McGonagall practically wailed. "The entire staff has been scrambling all summer to find somebody."

"Minerva, you must understand my position when I say that I didn't want to promise you something I wouldn't necessarily be able to deliver," he said gravely. "Granger wasn't even able to give me a definite guarantee until today."

"Well, this is excellent news! Since this is nicely taken care of, I can now safely allow you to look for your own replacement," McGonagall smiled warmly at him.

"Thank you," he replied cordially.

Inwardly, however, he nearly melted into a puddle of relief. It would be easy enough to con Granger into finding a replacement for himself as well. And then he would be gone, thankfully. He would get the chance to do what he wanted to be doing right then and there. This opportunity in front of him, he had to make it a priority in his life. Although he would never admit it, he would actually miss attempting to teach the bogey-brained idiot-children. It was entertaining to watch their confidence evaporate whenever he walked into the room.

* * *

Later that evening, Hermione sat in her apartment directly above Black-Beetle Eyes. She was reading on her bed and looked up from the giant packet of information Snape had sent her. She took a glance at the old barn owl that had delivered the parcel. The owl had yet to return to its owner because it was very keen on snacking on the salty bar nuts Hermione had given it. She was poor and short on owl treats. Hermione secretly hoped they would give the owl a nasty case of diarrhea that Snape would have to deal with.

She snorted derisively before returning to the information before her. Apparently, the books the previous professors had been relying on were still the ones from when she was at Hogwarts. _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, Defensive Magical Theory_,and _Confronting the Faceless_. Of course, these were both good texts, but more had been published since Hogwarts had started using these! She would have to stop by Flourish and Blotts to see what they had available.

Oh goodness, and then there was the matter of coordinating the different syllabi for all seven years. What in the world? Yes, a stop at Flourish and Blotts was definitely needed. Seventh years and second years could not be reading the same texts. Perhaps for the purpose of a general overview, this would be acceptable, but this was ridiculous. The curse on Defense position had been gone as long as Voldemort had been. This wasn't an excuse for Hogwarts to completely let the course fall into shambles!

* * *

She found herself saying the same thing to Snape when he found her at work the next day. "Voldemort is not an excuse for Hogwarts letting this course fall into shambles!" she said vehemently. She was stacking glasses and of course, Snape was sitting in front of her at the bar drinking firewhisky—again. 

"Don't whinge at me. Blame the professor who last taught the course." He sighed.

"The last professor was Quentin Trimble, the author of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_. He was almost as bad as Quirrell, except for the hiding evil incarnate behind a turban part. No, it was whoever was before that. This was going on since way before him and none of the information you gave me indicates who held the position previously and I can't…"

He raised his brow at her, waiting for her to finish.

"Shite, it was you, wasn't it? I forgot about my sixth year. You stayed on as the D.A.D.A. prof that long after I graduated?" Hermione sighed, frustrated.

"Your powers of deduction are astounding, Granger." He sounded bored. She ignored his comment and continued on her rant.

"Why would you do this to what you had wanted for so long?" She was less curious about his back-story, but more distressed at that she had to reorganize and patch up an entire course before the school year started.

"Remember the part where I told you that dreams change?" he asked snidely.

"Bugger it. You would just love to watch me clean up after you, wouldn't you?"

"Actually, yes. That was the idea of this, wasn't it? I blackmail you into filling the D.A.D.A. job, so I can get on with my life, correct?"

"I don't know. Was that the idea of this? You haven't actually told me your motivations for doing this, other than being a complete bastard."

"I don't explain my motives. It makes me go on a long, ranting monologue, which gives you ample opportunity to gain the upper hand intellectually."

"Fine. I guess my point was thank you for making me clean up the absolute mess you made out of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Even though you can't stop bitching about the job without having started it?"

She gave him a dark look in response. He cleared his throat.

"Anyway. Have you signed the contract yet?"

"No because I have a problem with the curriculum."

"What's wrong with the curriculum? We've already gone over how I completely shafted you."

Hermione wondered briefly why all terms with the definition of someone doing something terrible to another person all carried sexual connotations. Shafted. Screwed. Stuffed. Fucked. Sex was enjoyable, whereas restructuring an entire curriculum was not. She looked up to see Snape staring at her expectantly, waiting for clarification of her complaint. "I meant the general education curriculum at Hogwarts," she explained.

"I forced you into being the Defense professor, not the Headmistress," he replied, dismissing her.

"No, but I was looking at some studies and the ability of students to critically think was atrocious. Do you realize that there is no Wizarding Literature class?"

"We don't teach such frippery at Hogwarts."

"Frippery it may be, but it develops critical thinking skills, the ability to write an argument, the ability to analyze a situation, and deduce what's important."

"Interesting."

"I plan to take it to the Governing Board of Hogwarts."

"Interesting."

"What is?" she asked, incensed that he refused to comment on any of her ideas. As an academic, he should at least have _something_ to say!

"Wasn't it just on Sunday that you said something along the lines of, 'Those who can't do, teach'?"

"Yes, but—"

"And weren't you the one who said, 'I will not be a _teacher_'? That was you, yes, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but what does—"

"So you're too good to be a teacher, are you?"

"No, what I meant was that your point—"

"My point, Granger, is—"

"You point is _what_?" she snapped.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, you overachieving fool."

He grinned. She Scowled.

"Bastard."

"Yes?"

"You giant, loathsome bastard!"

"You rang?"

"Fine. When do I move into my quarters?"

"The same night the first years do."

"But that isn't for another two weeks!"

"I wanted you to appear as enigmatic and as unavailable as possible. All the easier when they start asking you about your vampire research."

"Well where I am I supposed to go until then? I'm training the bloke replacing me until the end of the week."

"You found someone to replace you that quickly?" His hopes of her finding someone for him rose.

"Someone owed me a favor."

"How cunning of you."

"Not my point," she said.

"What is?"

"I lose my lodgings once I'm done training."

Silence.

"Oh no." Snape's face went white.

"Oh yes." Hermione's eyes gleamed.

"Oh, Granger, you're not."

"You got me into this mess, Snape."

"No, you can go back to the Weasleys. Or Potter."

"I'm still in Romania. I'm supposed to be elusive," she reminded him sweetly.

"Be elusive with the Weasleys." He shrugged her off.

"I'm not stable enough to go back to them and pull this off," she said, her voice shaky. "Not when I've been living in a moth-eaten apartment for nearly a year."

He sighed. She had a lot of pride in her.

"You will not touch _any_ of my belongings on Spinner's End," he conceded.

"I'll lick everything while you're asleep," she replied maliciously.

He wondered what "everything" would consist of. Severus shook away the thought. He was an idiot. Furthest thing from a cunning git. He needed a refresher course in manipulation. Granger was making it hard.

**A/N: Yes, there **_**is**_**subtext in that last sentence. Poor, tasteless subtext, but subtext nonetheless. Review!**


	5. Ch 5: The Lovely Mrs Rothschild

**A/N: Here is another chapter. I hope you enjoy. Not one of my favorites, but I'm just glad I haven't fallen off the face of the earth again. I think this story is going to be a lot longer than I originally thought. Whatever, I'm having fun. **

Chapter 5—The Lovely Mrs. Rothschild

Hermione lifted the tarnished silver knocker and rapped it several times. She looked down at her watch, 10:03. Why had he insisted she come so late in the evening? He had been adamant in his owl to her. His aging wooden door flew open and he looked down at her suspiciously.

"Hurry. Inside," he hissed.

"Why? What is this charade?" Hermione demanded. What the hell kind of Clandestine Dark Arts Activities sort of flim-flam was Snape up to?

"Nothing. Get. In. Side," he ground out, waving her in urgently.

She was about to protest when suddenly a porch light flicked on next door. Snape's head snapped in the direction of his neighbor. A screen door creaked open and his eyes widened in terror and dread. A black Chihuahua skipped out into the yard, followed by its owner. The dog's owner was an old, hunched woman who had her hair in curlers and wore a purple bathrobe with lime green trim.

Hermione winced inwardly. _That_ was something even she would take great care to avoid.

"Mister Snaaape! How wonderful to see you. How aaaare you?" the woman's frail voice called out.

Snape sighed, emerging from the protection of his doorway to stand next to Hermione on his front steps. His lips stretched across his face in the most forced smile Hermione had ever seen on anyone. She had a feeling that if she had so much as lightly tapped his cheek with the edge of her fingernail, all of his teeth would fall out of his mouth in a tumble of withheld vexation.

"I am well, Mrs. Rothschild. How do you fare this evening?" he asked, eyeing the woman's dog with thinly veiled disdain.

"I'm good, just waiting for Schnitzel here to have his nightly tinkle!" she shouted cheerfully from her lawn. Hermione's eyes widened in fear for the Chihuahua's life when it traipsed merrily into Snape's yard. Snape's eyes narrowed into slits. Hermione eyed him warily and prayed that he would not use wandless magic to make the little black dog spontaneously combust.

"Ooooh, who's a good boy? That's a very nice tinkle!" Mrs. Rothschild cooed. Schnitzel yipped happily in response. Snape's eyes bugged out. He looked back and forth pointedly between the dog that stood in the middle of his lawn and Mrs. Rothschild. The old woman took no notice of his stares. Instead, she took a treat out of her pocket and called her dog back to her waiting arms. She took a moment to cuddle Schnitzel before looking up and taking notice of Hermione for the first time.

"Mister Snape! Who is this charming young woman on your step? You never tooold me about _her_!" Mrs. Rothschild exclaimed with round eyes. Hermione blinked slowly to make sure that this Jewish grandmother actually existed. Snape shook himself out of his enraged daze, looking confused. He turned his head to look down at Hermione.

"Oh. That." Snape sighed, reminded of yet another nuisance in his life. "This, Mrs. Rothschild is Hermione Granger. She is a former student of mine. She is to be teaching at my school and needed a place to stay for a few days," he explained, sizing Hermione up as if he had only seen her for the first time.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rothschild!" she called politely, giving the woman a small wave.

"You two should come over for some tea! Harold hasn't seen you in months—"

"Unfortunately," Snape's booming voice interrupted the old woman, "Hermione is tired from her long voyage here. I'm sure she would like to get some rest." Snape glared at her as if to tell her to pass out from exhaustion on the spot. Hermione immediately slumped her shoulders and put a wilted look on her face.

"Of course! It was my mistake. Dear, you must simply get to bed! We'll have tea some other time!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Rothschild, for understanding. I am really just exhausted." Hermione yawned for emphasis.

"Goodnight Mrs. Rothschild!" Snape said emphatically as he grabbed Hermione's hand to drag her into the house.

"Nice meeting you, Hermione!" they heard the frail woman call before Snape slammed the door shut. They leaned against the door and sighed collectively in relief. He shot her a look of scorn.

"_That_ is why I asked you arrive _promptly_," he spat.

"I was three minutes late!" Hermione replied, astounded.

"For which our lives were taxed dearly!" he retorted as he pushed his weight off the door to stalk angrily out of the foyer and down the hallway. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed him. He whirled around suddenly and peered down at her, frowning. He looked down around at her feet as if she might be hiding something.

"What?" she asked, looking behind her, concerned.

"Don't you have an overbearing feline?"

"You mean Crookshanks?" She raised her brows at him.

"Yes, that's the one. I don't want it to piss on my floor unexpectedly." He grimaced.

"Crookshanks died three years ago when he got run over by the Knight Bus," Hermione replied flatly.

"Oh, you're quite right," he said, revelation dawning on him.

"Yeah, there was a funeral and everything." She crossed her arms over her chest and flipped her hair over her shoulder angrily.

"Yes, yes, now I remember."

"A funeral which you didn't even _go_ to," she said coolly.

"It was a cat." He blinked at her.

"Part Kneazle," she emphasized.

"I sent you a card," he defended.

"Yes, of course you did. I remember it. Thoughtless and impersonal. Sent in haste. Quite compassionate," she said nastily.

"Really? You expected _me_—out of _everyone_ you know— and I do mean everyone— to be compassionate?" He stared at her in shock.

"Well, it was pretty traumatic. He was hit by a triple-decker bus. People were upset," she said haughtily.

"It was a cat," he repeated.

"McGonagall came to the funeral," she pointed out.

"Of course she would, she's the Gryffindor cheerleader," he snorted.

"Mad-Eye came," she snapped.

"Really? Why?" he asked, confused.

Hermione glowered at him.

"No, honestly, you held a funeral, for your _cat_. Dumbledore— that I can understand. But a cat?"

"He was _special_," she hissed.

"Special is right. Special enough to jump in front of a bus," he retorted.

Hermione gasped. "You're loathsome."

"I'm sorry, I just don't understand why you insist on putting me on trial. I sent you a bloody card!"

"It _said_, 'Happy 60th Birthday,'" she said between gritted teeth.

"Still a card!" he insisted.

"_Professor_, I do not need to hear anymore of these excuses. I would appreciate it if you could simply tell me where I could put my things," she stated icily.

Snape narrowed his eyes at her. Was she playing games?

Oh, yes, Hermione was playing games. She briefly noted that if she could put him on a guilt trip this easily, then she should have no trouble asserting her dominance within the classroom.

"Your things?" he asked.

"Yes, where should I put them? Where will I be sleeping?" she said snootily.

"In the _street_," he snarled.

Hermione's eyes widened and her jaw opened slightly. So much for asserting dominance.

* * *

It wasn't until the next morning that Hermione fully comprehended what sort of horridly awkward situation she had placed herself in. Her day had started off nicely enough, getting a nice ten hours of sleep. It felt nice to sleep as long as she needed to. She felt no need to wake up at seven to obsessively plan her day. Instead she stayed in her pajamas and continued to review and edit the Hogwarts curriculum in bed. However, by ten, she was gazing warily at the clock on her nightstand. 

How was shacking up with a random man a good course of action? It had seemed like a good idea when she had been stuck serving sweaty drunks, but this was just bad. Snape was so snippy and particular she knew she could get on his bad side just by walking around the house. This was terrible. She would be confined to a bedroom for the next week. And not in a good way!

"This like a bloody sleepover," she muttered to herself. And sleepovers sucked. Why? Sure, the concept is nice. One girl goes over to another girl's house to a night of Disney movies, popcorn, and manicures. All of this is fine. All of this had been enjoyable to Hermione growing up. What blew, however, was the morning after. Apparently it doesn't matter how old you are—the morning after will _always _suck.

In Hermione's experience, she had found that at sleepovers, there were two types of sleepover companions. One was the friend who slept a solid 17 hours without rolling over once. The other was the friend who _must_ wake at 6 a.m. to watch cartoons and who demands ice cream for breakfast. Hermione had been neither of these children, but had somehow always ended up at a sleepover with either The Sloth or The Crack Addict— or in the worst cases, both.

This right here, being in Snape's house? This was like spending the night at The Sloth's. All The Sloth can ever do is crawl into bed and never leave. No matter what, you always end up waiting like two hours for this bitch to wake up. Hermione used to cope with the situation by going through all her stuff, reading the girl's books, looking at her dolls, and yet The Sloth would sleep through all of this! Sure, sleepovers are great and all, but there comes a certain point the following morning where you just want to start the damn day already!

The worst-case scenario is when you're stuck sleeping over at The Sloth's house. If The Sloth stayed over at your house, fine, you could get breakfast whenever you wanted to and you could play with your own stuff while she slept the morning away. You could be in the backyard jumping on a trampoline when The Sloth finally decided to show her sorry ass to the world. But spending the night at The Sloth's was always torture for Hermione. For starters, staying at someone else's house means living in foreign territory. There is an unwritten law that you cannot do anything until The Sloth wakes up. You have two options until that bitch decides she's filled her sleep quota: go to the bathroom or sleep. Stepping outside the bedroom before the host is awake is deemed impolite.

When forced into this situation, Hermione had often stolen the books off The Sloth's shelves and read them until finally the goddamn Sloth would blearily open her eyes, look around, and yell at her mom to make the two of them some waffles.

Frankly, Hermione was shocked. She would not have pictured Snape as being a Sloth. The man was an ornery professor. He just seemed the type to wake up early. Hermione fidgeted with the down comforter covering her legs. It wouldn't be the most terrible thing in the world if she went downstairs and at least got some coffee. After dealing with Mrs. Rothschild the night before, Hermione really didn't want to piss Snape off. After all, he was nice enough to let her stay in his home until—

"Hey Top-Student-of-Hogwarts! The rotten dick _blackmailed_ you, remember?" Snarky Hermione was quick to point out. She sighed put her head in her hands.

"My God, your confidence is absolutely shot, isn't it? You're trying to be nice to a total prick," Motherly Hermione gasped.

"He isn't a total prick. Aside from the blackmail bit. He does know a little bit about psychology. That can be a good quality in a person," Optimistic Hermione chirped.

"Shut up, Optimistic bitch! It's too damn early for that!" Snarky Hermione and Motherly Hermione snapped.

"Early? You've been contemplating getting out of this room for the past hour," Optimistic Hermione argued.

"SHUT UP," they retaliated. Optimistic Hermione slunk away.

"Why am I still here?" she asked aloud. "Stuff it! I don't care!"

Hermione threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. She dressed quickly. She threw open the door and rushed downstairs—The Unwritten Laws of Sleepovers and Guest Etiquette be damned! She was bloody hungry!

Hermione stomped into the kitchen, the old kitchen tile protesting under her weight. Snape sat at the kitchen table and peered up at her from a copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

"About time you decided to show your face. I was wondering if you were going to waste away the entire day sleeping," he sighed, putting the paper down.

"I wasn't—and I…but it's only…" she looked at the clock on the wall, "…eleven."

"Yes, only," he replied coolly. "There are some eggs and toast, if you want them… Then again, perhaps they too grew bored waiting for you and already started to decompose…" He eyed a plate next to him warily.

Hermione considered fighting. She considered shrieking at him. What a terribly awkward social situation he had put her in!

She wanted to rail at him for deceiving her into thinking that he was a Sloth when he obviously wasn't and that he should've knocked on her door to let her know that it was okay to get up and start the day but then again it really wasn't his fault because as the guest she had the right to sleep as long as she needed and oh damn it all to hell she was the one who was supposed to make it be known that she was awake because she was a guest in his home even though he had blackmailed her and oh blast blast blast how did she fuck that up and he probably thought her lazy now but honestly why should she care that he thought she was lazy because she really really wasn't lazy and damnit she could've had breakfast an hour ago if he had merely knocked on her door to say "hello are you awake" because honestly how hard is it to knock on somebody's door and ask "hello are you awake" because it really really isn't and how stupid could she get?!

Hermione took a deep breath.

She glanced at Snape with an awkward smile. He stared at her, confused and a little disgusted. In the end, she settled on saying, "Thank your house elf for me for making the eggs."

He merely rolled his eyes and resumed his perusal of the paper. Well, Day 2 of her stay in the Snape household was starting off just fantastically.

* * *

For the next few days, Hermione thought it best to avoid Snape as much as possible. If she didn't, she might say something stupid. And then he might do something drastic. Like make her stay with Mrs. Rothschild. Ech. 

Hermione spent her time in her room, rewriting and planning her syllabi. Occasionally she would apparate to Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley to peruse and select various textbooks for her classes. Whenever she did return home, she always found a plate of food waiting for her on the kitchen table. They may be slaves, but house elves were certainly good for something.

Thankfully, Snape seemed just as content in ignoring her. She saw him rarely and if she did run into him, he would merely give her a bored once over before retreating to another part of the small house. He seemed irritated by the fact that she was being so diligent and upbeat about her D.A.D.A course.

_Well fuck him,_ she thought. Just because he had access to information that could humiliate her didn't mean she would see the cards he dealt her as a prison sentence. The prick was just pissed that even after graduating, she had managed to maintain her brilliant work ethic. Her work ethic was something to be jealous of. It was as pert and perfect as Lavender Brown's tits. And Lavender Brown's tits were something to be be envious of.

* * *

Their wary avoidance of each other ended when Hermione misjudged her timing and walked in on Snape having his breakfast. He usually left the kitchen by ten. She glanced at her watch—10:05. Blast! The ass had overextended his stay. It might have been _his_ kitchen, but they had an unspoken agreement that from 10 a.m. onwards, the kitchen was _hers_. 

Then again, he looked so content, reading his newspaper. He wore the robes she had seen him wear every day for seven years. He looked so satisfyingly comfortable, it was understandable that he had decided to linger.

But still. The term hadn't even started and Hermione was already stressed under the pressure of the task she was preparing to take on. She didn't need him invading her space and making snarky comments to put her over the edge. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she glared at him and wondered how he had the right to be so at ease. Stupid bugger.

When it looked like he wasn't about to leave, she took a seat and nibbled at a plate of toast in front of her. At some point soon, she was going to have to owl McGonagall to get her rosters for this term. It was going to be hard acting so intellectually pompous when she didn't have the vaguest notion of what groundbreaking research on vampires actually existed. No matter what, she would have to sound busy. Busy and snotty. For maximum effect, the letter would have to be concise and uninterested. That way—

"So when you've finished with your breakfast, you might want to change into something you can work in," Snape interrupted her thoughts placidly. Hermione jumped from her frantic musings and stared at him. He hadn't even looked away from his paper. Hermione looked down at her lavender blouse and jeans.

"Why?" she asked cautiously.

"To garden," he replied, setting the paper down.

"Alright, listen. I don't agree with it, but you have a house elf for that kind of thing," she said irritably.

"I do?"

"Yes, you do. So just because I'm coming back to Hogwarts, doesn't mean you can con me into doing your housework as well."

"Con? Who said anything about conning?"

"You did."

"What a terrible idea! Isn't that sort of thing illegal? Conning? No, no, I was talking about _gardening_," he said innocently.

"Gardening?" Hermione snorted.

"I take it you are familiar with the concept? Seeds, water, and sunshine are combined in loving harmony. As a result, photosynthesis occurs, flowers grow, and butterflies emerge from their cocoons in a scene of harmonious glory," he explained with false sweetness.

"Oh, _that_ kind of gardening," she nodded, unenthused and sarcastic.

"Go change!" he barked.

"Oh God, don't send me to Mrs. Rothschild's!" she said in a panic as she jumped up from her seat and dashed off to her room. Damn it, he still had the capability of scaring the wits out of her.

"Mrs. Rothschild's?" Snape asked himself, alone in the kitchen and quite confused.

* * *

**A/N: Review! Questions/comments/suggestions are definitely welcome. So I know that Crookshanks conversation is random, but I knew I needed some sort of explanation of his absence. I died laughing as I wrote it. **

**Next chapter: Bizet and gardening!  
**


	6. Ch 6: Oats and Watermelon

**A/N: If you've never listened to or seen Bizet's Carmen, do so now because it is gorgeous. Hermione and Severus are way more OOC than ever before. Enjoy.**

Chapter 6—Oats and Watermelon

Outside, Hermione found a beautiful, if not muggy day and a small back yard full of gnarled, overgrown plant life. Snape was bent over on the back porch, fussing with the Wizarding Wireless Network. He had changed into some black Muggle work jeans and a black long sleeved shirt. A minor improvement. At least he didn't have his signature billowing robes on. A hook-nosed, bat-like Snape pulling weeds would've been too much to handle. He hit a station on the WWN that made excitement bubble up Hermione's throat.

"Oh leave it, leave it!" she insisted. Snape turned and looked at her with a raised brow. "Glenda Chittock's presenting!" she said as if that would explain everything. "She's doing a show on Muggle composers and she's highlighting Bizet's _Carmen_ today!"

"I didn't realize you had an affinity for Muggle opera." He stepped away from the WWN and walked toward her.

"I don't. But you'd have to be a fool to hate _Carmen_," she replied, her face quite serious.

Snape shrugged and motioned for her to follow him to a dilapidated blue shed in the corner of the yard. He handed her two trowels, a shovel, and a pair of pruning shears. They all looked clean and unused.

"So why are _we_ doing this when it's quite obvious _you_ don't even do this?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Quarter-life crisis."

"You're still on that?"

"Of course I am. Ever since you got here, you've been overworking yourself psychologically with this new course."

Hermione wanted to scream. "You _blackmailed_ me into taking the job. I think a little psychological duress is called for!" she shot back. Maria Callas' voice on the WWN intensified in a crescendo.

"Blackmail, blackmail. Will you quit taking that term so seriously?" he scoffed. "It was merely a slightly forced shove in the right direction."

"Oh yes, I'm sure that's exactly what it was," Hermione crossed her arms over her chest.

"Would you rather be at Black-Beetle Eyes cleaning up vomit and serving the same foul-smelling fools the same drinks every day?" he asked and pulled the shed door shut.

"I had Mondays off," she said haughtily, following him as he walked calmly across his yard.

"And I'm sure there was just so much room for growth and promotion within that venue," he sneered over his shoulder.

"I did what I had to do. I don't need your judgments." She waved around a trowel for emphasis.

"Clearly, you do because you're a bloody mess and you won't even let the sickening Weasleys help you."

"I'm fine, I can handle this," she replied crisply.

"Have you looked in the mirror? The term hasn't even started and you already have bags under your eyes." He glanced at her pityingly. Violins from the opera whined in melancholy.

"I work hard. So what?" she snapped, self-consciously brushing at the skin under her eyes.

Snape stopped short in the middle of the yard. "You'll burn out, that's what," he raised his voice in exasperation. "It's one thing to burn out when you've been doing your damndest to slay Voldemort, but Merlin, this is a _class_. For students. For _Hogwarts' students_. They have no future anyway!"

"You're contradicting yourself. You think a working class job like bartending is low class. Yet Hogwarts, a fine academic institution, isn't worth an ounce of my hard work. You're talking in riddles!"

"It's not a matter of life and death, Granger. I'm sure you have more important things to worry about than either Hogwarts or a bar," said drolly.

"Like _what_?" Hermione's voice was shrill. "I have _nothing_!" Why was Snape playing the role of psychologist? What the hell was he even talking about? Even more importantly, why was she buying into this cheap trick of his?

Instead of answering her, he merely gave her a self-satisfied smirk. Hermione eyed him coldly before asking, "…And how is _gardening_ going to help?"

Snape raised a brow. "Granger, your carefully laid out plans got fucked. Hard. Now you don't know what to do with all the pieces of your life and you don't know what you want. Figure out what you want already."

"Stop playing Dumbledore, will you?" she demanded.

Snape's face hardened. Hermione regretted changing his mood from light and snarky to cold and angry, but her frustrations got the better of her. What sort of position was he in to force her into fixing her life?

Hermione sighed in defeat. "Just stop with these cloaked lessons and tell me how gardening is supposed to help with my inner chi or whatever hippie-psychological-voodoo bullshit you believe in."

Snape considered snatching a trowel from her hand and hitting her over the head with it. Instead, he opted for letting his voice drip with venom. "You have sixty different voices trying to figure out what to do with your life right now. You should focus on something else before you drive yourself to the edge," he said harshly.

Hermione's eyes widened. Did he know about all of the different Hermiones wandering around her mind? A tenor's voice from _Carmen_ swelled. Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"You're not pulling that Legilimency crap on me, are you?" she hissed and covered her head with her arms in a pathetic attempt at stopping him from reading her mind.

"No. I have _some_ respect for people's privacy. Some."

"Oh." She slowly dropped her hands from her head, eying him skeptically. He sighed.

"Why don't you start by de-gnoming the flower beds? I'll work on those blasted overgrown shrubs." He took the pruning shears and a trowel from her limp hands. "Face it, Granger. You're just absolutely, terrifyingly bonkers."

* * *

And she was. She really was. Hermione had to admit that the de-gnoming did help clear her head. It was nice not to have a million neurons firing in her brain and sending her mind a jumble of messages all at once. It was just her, the dirt, and the gnomes. 

For a while she had imagined each gnome as Snape. She imagined a small version of Snape in his dark robes, squirming in her hand. Satisfaction lit her eyes and she hit the gnome over the head with her trowel and flung it to the opposite end of the yard. Fifteen or so repetitions of this had done wonders for relieving her stress. Eventually she calmed down and simply running through the motions was soothing.

She didn't have to worry about coming back to Hogwarts, she didn't have to relive her last day at the Ministry, she didn't have to serve drinks, she didn't have to sleep on a paper-thin mattress, she didn't have to wonder how she was going to get her life back in order, and she didn't have to think about lying to her best friends about where she had been for the past year.

Okay, fine, so all of those things were running through her mind as she worked in the dirt of Snape's garden. However, with Carmen playing in the background and Snape fighting with the rhododendron bush, all of those things seemed so far away. The weekend was almost there and she had no qualms about merely lying about and soaking up the last few rays of summer until she had to leave for Hogwarts.

Right then, she was gardening with Snape and that was the most surreal thing in the world. The sun was in her eyes, but it was warmed her face, so she didn't mind. The fact that the yard was so unkempt made her more at peace with it. It didn't have to be perfect. She had no obligations to it. The trees and the bushes and the bugs merely offered solace.

_God, I'm turning into as much of a hippie as Snape_, she thought_, communing with nature, coming to terms with my thoughts, accepting my hesitant future, and all of that_. She looked up to watch him attack a bush with pruning shears with admirable vigor. What the hell was going on with that man? There had to be a reason for him blackmailing her. Why the hell had he been in her bar? Had he known about her hiding place beforehand? Why was he actually making the effort to see that she didn't spontaneously combust?

He probably didn't want to have to drag her broke-down self to Hogwarts and say, "Hello! This is your new professor! Enjoy!" There were just too many questions.

But still, she had to admit he was a fascinating person. There was no other word for him. Fascinating. He was a monster to his students, a recluse to his coworkers, and a pain-in-the-arse (yet a valuable pain-in-the-arse) to the Order. And in private he was this…this odd hippie of sorts. She suspected that to Dumbledore, he had been a trusted disciple of sorts. All she knew was that Snape was a conniving, witty fuckhead who knew way too much about psychology and life crises.

A gnome scuttled from her fingers because she was too busy watching her former professor. The gnome did a little dance and slipped back into the flower bed with an excited, "Whee-hee!" Hermione continued to watch him work until he paused to wipe sweat from his brow. Wait. _You're staring at him_, she thought.

Hermione turned abruptly back around to focus on the flowerbed. _Why were you staring at him? _she asked herself silently.

"Oh _no_, oh no no no. This is bad," Logical Hermione panted in a panic.

"Shut up, shut up, shut _up_!" Hermione hissed in an attempt to stop all the other Hermiones from waking up and adding their two cents'. Thankfully, Logical Hermione slunk away to leave Hermione…er…by herself?

_Did I just think that Snape was fascinating? _she thought. _Yes, yes, that is the term I used. Fascinating._ Well, clearly, there was absolutely nothing wrong with finding someone fascinating. Finding someone attractive? That was something completely different. Hermione clutched at the grass by her sides. Attractive? Where had that thought come from?

Hermione slowly turned her head to take a quick look at him. He was still working. He was still fascinating. And he was still attractive. What? WHAT? No, no, no! This was bad! Oh no, this couldn't be happening. Oh, but it was.

Before Hermione could even start to whine or rationalize the situation, Logical Hermione jumped back in to the one-sided…(?)…conversation…if that's what you could even call it…?

"Okay, I'm going to say this once and I'm going to say it quickly. Then I'm going to leave."

"What…?" Hermione asked Logical Hermione.

"Hermione, do not even _try_ to deny this because that always backfires and no one ever believes that stupid twit who 'suddenly realizes' she loves the man of her dreams. At least admit you find this guy attractive. Then no one will want to hit you in the face with a book when you freak out and realize you have feelings for him. That way it won't be completely unprecedented or evil. People always get pissed off at the person who realizes they love someone when they wouldn't even acknowledged that they were bloody attracted to the person to begin with. It's completely unrealistic. So just do me a favor and acknowledge that you like him. Otherwise, you _will_ receive a severe beating from all of us later," Logical Hermione explained.

"Wait, what? Love? Feelings? I was just staring at him for a minute..."

"Yes, yes I know this is weird. Who knows? Nothing might ever happen with this guy _ever._ You might get over it in a week. But please, for the love of Merlin and Sabrina the Teenage Witch, just admit that you like the way his arse looks in those jeans!" Logical Hermione sighed.

Hermione took another quick look at Snape working behind her. "Mmm, his arse does look damn good in those jeans."

"Thank Merlin. Now just relax and enjoy. Who knows what will happen? Besides, you two have good banter. You know how hard it is to find good banter these days."

"That is so true! I always had a good row with Ron, but that wasn't banter. Banter is so much _fun_." Hermione smiled.

"Oh, and you know he's on to something about that quarter life crisis bullshit. He may be evil and conniving, but he knows about the psychology. And honestly? After all the other fucked up trifle that's happened to you— getting fired, working at a bar, hiding from your family and friends, are you really all that surprised that you're attracted to him? When weird trifle happens, more weird trifle tends to follow."

"I suppose so," Hermione admitted.

"No, not really a shocker at all," Cynical Hermione added suddenly.

"What are you doing here? Logical Me! I thought you said this was between us?" Hermione whined.

Cynical Hermione ignored her. "Yeah, it just sucks that now you probably _will_ have a giant crush on him and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"Ooh, I do like that irony, Cynical Hermione," Logical Hermione laughed.

"No! This is bad, this is so bad…nothing will come of it and it will be terrible and gah," Pessimistic Hermione cried.

"Piss off. Hermione's only been here a few days. Don't even worry about it. Just see how it goes," Logical Hermione assured her.

Hermione threw her trowel down, stood up, and promptly started smacking her head angrily. "Bloody hell, get out, get out, get OUT!" She yelled at the various Hermiones bickering in her head. "OUT! OUT! OUT!" She turned around to see Snape holding his shears mid-snip. He quirked an eyebrow up at her.

"Something the matter, Granger?" he asked, not even bothering to cover up a smirk.

"Erm…" She tried an unaffected smile, but failed. "Just a couple of bees. I really hate it when they get right in your ears. The buzzing drives me crazy. They're just so…loud," she said awkwardly.

"Right, of course. Bees," he replied starkly.

* * *

The next morning, at a nice 8 a.m., Hermione crept down the stairs to investigate the breakfast situation. After he had psychoanalyzed her in the garden, she felt that there wasn't much point in trying to avoid him. Besides, it was such a relief not to have to wait for him to vacate the kitchen at 10. 

She felt slightly more at ease wandering around his turf now that she was (fairly) sure that he wouldn't send her to live at Mrs. Rothschild's on a whim. Snape's house was modest. Actually, to accurately describe it would be to call it a shithole. However, what bumped it from shithole to modest were the sitting room and the bedrooms. Well, she had only seen her own bedroom, but she assumed that if the guest bedroom was as nice as it was, then others must be even more lavish. She assumed that Snape found these to be the only areas worth maintaining because the rest of the house was in pathetic disrepair. Logically, it made sense. Snape only lived in this house less than fourth months out of the year. There was no reason to maintain the house (or the yard) when he was gone most of the time. However, Hermione couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the décor that was clearly leftover from the 1970s.

The kitchen wasn't much better, with its cracked floor tiles and sticky, lopsided cabinets. However, more disgruntling than any floor tile was the fact that Snape was standing at the stove cooking. Cooking, what? She had assumed he had house elves! Or so he had led her to believe. Granted, she had never seen them, but… he had been cooking for her all this time? Snape cooking? Cooking…Cooking? That was pretty…! It was also a little…? …But it was mostly…!!

He held a wooden spoon and was stirring something in a large, metal pot. Even more surprising was the fact that he was singing. He was quiet, but that didn't change the fact that Snape was _singing_. Hermione slipped in quietly and leaned against the pantry door to hear him better.

"Oats, oats, oats, oats…you are the grain I love the most. Oats, oats, oats, oats. Oats in the morning, when my stomach is churning. Oats for supper, with a nice sweet cuppa. Oats in the evening, is to me most pleasing. Oats make me merry, especially with a dash of sherry. Oats for the rich, oats for the poor, oats like no one's ever seen before! Oats, oats, oats, oats. Oats are my—"

"Do you always sing to your food?" Hermione interrupted with a sly grin on her face. He jumped and spun around to stare at her in shocked silence.

"And here I thought you had house elves." She continued to smile. Hermione couldn't believe herself. Was she teasing him? Was she flirting with him?

"Well I don't. Not my fault your sluggish Gryffindor brain couldn't deduce such a simple fact," he said between gritted teeth.

"Ooh, you pulled out a house insult. You must really not know what to say," she taunted.

He glowered at her in response. He took two bowls out of a cabinet and continued to stir the contents of the pot.

"Well, go on! Sing! You were doing it so beautifully just a minute ago. Sing to your food!" she snorted.

"If you mention this to _anybody_, anybody at all, I'll poison _yours_." His voice was dangerously quiet. He pointed the wooden spoon in her face threateningly for emphasis. Oatmeal clung to the spoon desperately. Hermione was surprised he hadn't flung any on the wall.

"I'm not that stupid. I wouldn't tell anyone," she said, trying and failing to sound as innocent as possible. She leaned forward and took a bite of the oatmeal off the spoon. Neither of them knew what had possessed her taste his oatmeal. But she had. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to formulate an attack.

He bent toward her and carefully whispered, "I wouldn't be against putting the bodily fluids of homeless men in your food either."

Hermione dropped her mouth open in surprise, giving Snape ample opportunity to yank the spoon away from her. She shook off the remark. Nothing could ruin this piece of blackmail for her.

"What are we having?" she asked, nonchalantly propping her elbows on the kitchen counter.

"Who says I'm giving any to you?" he barked as he turned the stove off.

"You couldn't an entire pot of that!" she accused and pointed at the two bowls he had set out. Her growling stomach refused to put up with Snape's ego.

"If it meant you would starve, then I would," he said lightly, opening a drawer.

"You're bluffing. What are we having?" she prodded again.

"Are you daft? We're having oatmeal." He rolled his eyes and pointed obviously at the pot. Hermione considered the pot for a moment before a grin captured her face.

"Oats?"

"Yes, oats," he replied waspishly.

"Ah, oats, oats. They are the grain…I love the most," she sang in a lilting voice. The sound of an abused spoon being thrown violently into the sink was his only reply. Yeah, the banter was good. Hard to find good banter in this town.

* * *

Hermione couldn't complain. It was Saturday night and they would be leaving for Hogwarts the following morning. She had managed to calm down somewhat about her new teaching position. She'd finished restructuring her syllabus and had managed to keep her worries about the future out of the forefront of her mind. 

She had even been sleeping better. It was a little after midnight and she was settled in bed, ready to fall asleep. Her mind was at relative ease and her stomach was content from the dinner Snape had made. It was still surprising to her that Snape had no house elf and that he did all the cooking (!) himself (!!). Hermione had made the mistake that evening of trying to help him with mashed potatoes before he threw her out of the kitchen in a whirlwind of obscenities. Apparently she didn't peel potatoes properly.

Hermione assumed that similar to Potions, cooking was Snape's zen thing. That was fine with her. He could do what he pleased. As long as she got free food, she decided it was best not to mess with a good thing.

However, Ron and Harry had obviously influenced her during their time at Hogwarts. Of course she had to mess with a good thing. How could she not?

She was suddenly not so ready to fall asleep and she couldn't help but think about the watermelon on Snape's counter. The lovely thing had appeared a few days before. She didn't know if it was a gift from Mrs. Rothschild or if he had simply picked it up at the market. Somehow, Hermione couldn't imagine Snape sizing up a watermelon and thinking about how nice of a summer treat that would be. Who knew? But the blasted thing had been haunting her dreams. She'd been royally pissed when Snape hadn't even bothered to serve it for dessert that evening. Perhaps he was saving it for the next day's breakfast?

"Hermionneeeee. Eat me. I am a watermelon. And I am delicious," it called to her from the kitchen.

Hermione sat up abruptly in her bed. The moon laughed at her from her open blinds. There was _no way_ that watermelon was calling to her. It was probably just Hermione's Stomach playing games and being obnoxious.

"Hermiiiooneeeeee. I am sooo gooood."

Several times, Hermione had been close to asking Snape if they could eat it, but both fear and politeness had kept her from doing so. What if it was poisoned? What if he was planning on giving it to Mrs. Rothschild? Oh dear, what if he was planning on giving poisoned watermelon to Mrs. Rothschild?

"Hermioooneee. Cut me open. I'm yours. Red, red fruit. Spit out the seeds. I'm watermelon," it continued to wail from the kitchen. A cricket chirped outside. A slight breeze came in from her open window. She whined incomprehensibly to herself. What if she cut it up and ate all of it? She could just eat all of it in one sitting. If Snape asked any questions, she could say it had gone bad and had thrown it away. She could say there had been a huge, disgusting bruise or dent in it. She could blame the whole thing on a watermelon thief. She could explain that watermelon thieves were notorious in these parts of England.

Was Snape saving the watermelon for a special occasion? No, yeah, maybe that was it. He _was_ saving it for the Welcome Feast. Maybe he was going to set up a celebratory barbeque in the dining hall and give the first-years fresh watermelon. The thought of Snape in an apron, stirring coals was too much for Hermione to handle this late at night.

Oh _no_. A terrible thought occurred to her. What if he wasn't going to do _anything _with it? What if he had forgotten about it? What if he just left it there to rot while they were at Hogwarts? He couldn't just _leave_ it there like that! What if he abandoned it?

She threw the thin sheet off her body and stumbled out of her room in a daze. Ignoring the fact that she was only wearing a thin, white, strappy nightgown, Hermione stormed the kitchen. Okay, well, she didn't storm the kitchen. It was a quiet storm. However, she did tiptoe with much determination.

She eyed the prize on the counter in the moonlight. As quietly as possible, she hunted for a knife and cutting board, which she found with little difficulty. Hermione pulled the fruit to her and inhaled. Never mind the fact that you can't really smell watermelon just by sniffing its exterior. Slowly and deliberately, she cut it in half. Oh, it was ripe, and so, so beautiful.

She glanced around the dark kitchen and listened with bated breath to make sure Snape wasn't angrily stomping into the room to accuse her to stealing his watermelon. All was quiet. Good.

Hermione grabbed a blue bowl that was sitting by the sink and started throwing cut up chunks of watermelon into it. Pausing in her work, she set down her knife and lifted a piece to her mouth to savor the fruit. The fruit seemed to be so happy sliding down her throat. It had wanted her to eat it. It was fate.

Oh, it was juicy, but it had flavor too. Not too watery and it wasn't mealy. Sometimes watermelon got mealy and that was just gross. She walked toward the sitting room, bringing the bowlful of watermelon with her. She would sink into the couch and enjoy her watermelon quietly.

A little bit of juice dribbled down her chin and she wiped at it with her arm. She sighed and then resisted the urge to scream. Snape was asleep and shirtless on the couch in the sitting room she had just walked into. A piece of watermelon slipped from her hand and back into the bowl with a plop. Hermione's eyes went wide. He stirred in his sleep. _No, don't wake up_, she thought desperately. Never mind stirring in his sleep, the bugger full on woke up and looked right at her. He watched her, as she stood frozen with a bowl of stolen watermelon in her arms. One of her white nightgown straps was falling off her shoulder.

"…Can I help you?" he asked quietly when she said nothing.

"Why are you sleeping down here?" Shirtless? She wanted to add.

"Because I believe you have my bedroom. Correct?"

"But why aren't you sleeping in your bedroom?"

"Because you are."

"B-but, don't you have a guest room?"

"No. I have a couch. Which I'm sleeping on. Which I was hoping to continue sleeping on for a few more hours," he said, glancing at his watch.

"Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"Only when you're gawking at me like that."

"I am not gawking!"

"Well, I don't know what you want to call it, but—are you eating my watermelon?"

"It called to me in my sleep."

"It _what_?"

"It looked really good."

"Oh…alright. You have some juice on your chin," he pointed out.

She wiped haphazardly at it with the back of her hand.

"Would you like some?" she asked, gesturing hesitantly with the bowl.

"Before you finish it in one sitting? Yes."

She passed him the bowl. He sat up and ate a piece, looking at her warily from his couch.

"It is rather good," he said.

"Yes?"

"It was a good investment."

"So you weren't planning to poison Mrs. Rothschild with it?"

"I beg your pardon?" he sputtered.

"I like watermelon," she said with an awkward smile on her face.

"Good."

"It wasn't for a celebratory barbeque for the first-years, was it?"

"A what?"

"Never mind." Was he wearing pants under that blanket…?

"Did you want some more?" he asked, offering her the bowl. He gave her a confused look.

"No, no thank you. I'm fine."

"I highly doubt that."

"No, I am."

"Alright."

"Hem…well…I'm going to go back to bed." She pointed at the ceiling.

"Alright." He nodded.

"In your room," she said.

"Yes, that's correct."

"In your bed."

"Yes."

"Your bed that you really should've kept because I could've slept on the couch—"

"It's fine, Granger."

"Yes."

Hermione flew from his sight and ran up the stairs.

* * *

She slammed the door to her—Snape's—room closed and she proceeded to have a mental freak out. Her thoughts were so panicked that it was impossible to decipher who was doing the talking. There was a smattering of Logical Hermione, but Pessimistic Hermione dominated the conversation. Self-Loathing Hermione was rocking back and forth in a corner. Optimistic Hermione had fled the scene. Angsty Hermione was ready to line her eyes in black eyeliner and pull a black hoodie over her head. Motherly Hermione was helpless. 

_Oh God, oh God, oh God_, she thought._ What the hell was that? What the HELL was that? This is so shady, this is so, so shady. I'm staying in my former professor's house and he's been cooking for me and I just saw him without a shirt on. We've been doing the banter thing and I'm smart enough to recognize that it's been much more than "I think you're an asshole" and "I think you're a dumb twat" banter. Oh God, oh God, have we been FLIRTING? _

_No, no. It can't be. What, what, WHAT? This cannot be happening. No, no, no. You enjoy torturing him. Don't you, DON'T YOU? Yes, yes of course I do! He's an arse and he deserves to be taunted and tortured. But what about the oats thing? That wasn't malicious, no, no, it wasn't. That was flirtatious. You boldly ate oatmeal from his spoon! _

_So? So? What does oatmeal matter? It doesn't! Oatmeal means NOTHING. Oh my God I'm sorry I take it back I take it back. No, wait a minute. You're just freaking out because you had an awkward encounter. _

_No if I thought it was awkward then I would just say, "Ha, well that was awkward." I wouldn't be panicking. Why am I panicking? No, no. I do NOT like him. I don't oh God no I don't like him because if I like him it will be one of those impossible things and I hate liking impossible people and nothing will ever ever happen and—you see? You see why it was important for you acknowledge that you were attracted to him? This part might be scary, but at least it's not random! Who cares if nothing ever happens?_

_I care! Because I like him. I think. You don't get it. This will be exactly like that time I had a super secret crush on Roger Davies because he was absolutely gorgeous and ridiculously charming, but absolutely impossible. Oh please, he was a nice looking Quidditch captain, who didn't fawn all over him? That isn't true! This is so terrible. I'm an angst bucket. I can't function. How am I supposed to work with him? How am I supposed to be his _colleague

_Damnit, tomorrow is going to be so weird. And well fuck, now I have sticky watermelon fingers…because of his stupid fucking watermelon. Don't blame the watermelon! The watermelon was delicious! I know, I know it was. This is just so awfully convoluted… But you know what? As absolutely terrible as this all is, I wish, oh damn…I wish my fingers were sticky with something else of his—NO, NO, NO HERMIONE. DANGEROUS TERRITORY. DO NOT DO NOT THINK ABOUT SEVERUS SNAPE'S SEMEN._

But alas, Hermione did think of Severus Snape's semen. And she had a hard time going to sleep because of it.

* * *

**A/N: Haha, what a way to end a chapter. How ridiculous. Review, please! I appreciate any and all constructive criticism/suggestions.**


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